the girl with the golden hair
by bokhi
Summary: (Once upon a time, there was a girl with bright, golden hair. Then the dragon came, and tore her in twain.) Not particularly canon-compliant. Hard M for a reason. This update: Faendal and Camilla discover adventuring is more blood and guts than glory and Hadvar gathers his party to go venturing forth.
1. 00: sunset

the girl with the golden hair

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. Etc.

Warnings: Not particularly canon-compliant, because let's face it, whereas Skyrim is a fun, fun game, it doesn't make for great fiction (re: suspension of disbelief is not a thing that ever happens). Hard M for a reason – violence, sex, also violence with sex (of the pillaging kind), and the worst kind of purple prose. You've been _warned!_

_Edit May 29th, 2014: _I've polished and added materials to chapter 1 (this chapter). I'll likely edit chapter 2 as well, though I think I'll wait until I'm finished more of the fic to do that particular re-haul. I'm also fairly certain by now that this is actually going to be two fics, not just the one.

Thanks for reading!

An Ending/Sunset at the Rim of the World

_"The World-Eater awakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."_

_\- The Book of the Dragonborn, _Prior Emeline Madrine

Sif falls, and the impact fractures her spine in three places.

Alduin laughs, gleeful as his bite-sized toy tumbles through the air to land with a painful _crunk._ He can see it twitching, can smell the blood wafting through the chinks in its metal scales; soul of a _dovah_ \- ha! - in a pale, fleshy little body. Like a worm, wriggling up from the mud naked in the rain; a pale, hairless little worm playing dress-up with tinkling little slabs of metal cobbled together. The tawdry gleam of fake dragon-skin offends him.

_Pathetic._

The World-Eater spreads his wings, and blots out the sun - no, he blots out the _sky_.

Alduin's roar shakes mountains to their roots, shakes the gods in their thrones and sends tremors through the tangled skeins of time.

(The Wheel turns.)

* * *

Riften always reeks of refuse and bad decisions. The prison is no different, though the physical reek is accompanied by the spiritual miasma of corruption and despair, shit and silent blades through soft gullets in the dark. The guard rattles the bars of her cage with a sneer. "Rise and shine princess! Wouldn't want to miss your big date!" He makes a gesture across his throat, laughing at his own joke. The woman says nothing.

Ingun Black-Briar sits alone in her cell, clothes threadbare and hair shorn short. She is the last Black-Briar, heir to a kingdom of sticky-sweet puddles and an executioner's axe; she sits ramrod straight, eyes dry and mouth unsmiling, the last true princess in a city of beggars and thieves.

* * *

Sif crawls. Her last potion swirls heat within her belly, though in her heart of hearts she knows it will not be enough.

Alduin laughs; he is toying with her. The first dragon flies through the air in tighter and tighter circles, like a scaled vulture. Sif imagines Alduin landing, one talon pressing with deceptive delicacy against her shoulder blades; she imagines him shoving that talon straight through, pinning her to the ground like a butterfly to an alchemist's primer-board; she imagines him taking her legs into his mouth and yanking her apart, just like that poor bastard at Helgen.

Sif crawls faster. She'd had to shed her armor - bent inwards and ruined beyond repair, it would have eventually gnawed her in half - and is reduced to her single layer of bloodied undercoat, its only enchantment for the weather. So Sif crawls, clawing at the dirt with desperate hope towards where she _thinks_ her satchel's been flung.

Sif crawls towards her destiny; Alduin laughs.

(The Wheel turns.)

* * *

Vilkas sits alone in Kodlak's chambers, the strongbox open beside him as he reconciles the accounts. Somewhere in Jorrvaskr, Torvar shouts, is met with a roar of laughter; his door creaks open as Farkas tromps in, tray in hand. "Brother!" Farkas is unrelenting in his cheer. "You forgot to eat!" He puts the tray down with a _thump_. Vilkas merely grunts, too busy scribbling to wave him away. His twin hovers, blocking his light. He can feel his temper begin to fray. "Farkas. Thank you. _GO._"

Farkas goes like a puppy with its teeth kicked in; Vilkas does not hear the quiet resignation in the soft click of the latch. Beside him, septims gleam a soft, buttery gold under candlelight. The warm glow sends the early tingles of a migraine through his skull; Vilkas thinks of gold tangled between his fingers and the beast seems to snap and thrash against the cage of his ribs. The migraine blooms as he resists the urge to smash the strongbox and every gold septim in it against the walls.

Vilkas will not surrender.

* * *

Alduin roars, his thu'um a wave of white-hot flame. It is fitting this should end in fire. Sif's golden hair catches, ignites until she is wreathed in a burning halo. She cannot pause to dampen the flames. Sif's thu'um is a ripple in space; it sends her careening into the air, desperation birthing a recklessness that is nothing like her. This country has eaten her, piece by piece, and now it will swallow the rest of her.

Sif falls upwards, buoyed by her thu'um; Alduin's laughter cuts into her even as his talons rend her right arm to shreds.

Sif's scream dies in her throat and Alduin laughs.

(The Wheel turns.)

* * *

Forsworn overrun Markarth. Kerah is the first to die, gaping at the arrow that seems to sprout from her throat. Her fate is the kindest to be had: Hroki is caught fleeing and the Forsworn make a game of her, leaving her corpse splayed and naked in the street.

The Silver-Bloods are rounded up like cattle, and one by one their heads go rolling on the hard Dwemer stones, to be hung from the walls along with their butchered bodies. Thongvar is left alive, spread-eagled in the main square with his guts glistening in the sun.

Madanach is king. He feasts, not knowing his crown will be measured in hours, not days.

Deep within the bowels of Understone Keep, Ondelemar smiles, and gives the order.

* * *

Sif is dying.

Her last potion is a fading burn worming through her gut; her right arm is a ruin of bones and mangled meat. Her staff is in pieces, and her fine blades have gone spinning off the mountain-side.

Magicka flickers at her finger tips with the first trickle of a healing spell then nothing, for her well has run dry.

She has her legs, her left arm, and the power of her thu'um.

Alduin is enjoying himself to distraction. His muzzle is wet and red with her blood as he eats what is left of her right hand. He does not need to chew; he tosses it back and swallows, a tiny dot in the sky beside the ominous black blotch that will consume the world.

It is a small distraction – but it is enough.

"_JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_

Alduin crashes to the ground; he's not laughing, not anymore.

(The Wheel turns.)

* * *

Cicero dies in a ditch with a mouth full of mud.

Babette burns beneath the cold light of a winter sun, pinned to the ground by a spear as the faithful set her to the torch; she goes up like paper.

Saadia looks at the ruin that was once Dawnstar sanctuary, and cracks her knuckles. It is time to get to work.

* * *

Sif climbs the dragon's head. She looks the World-Eater in the eye as he trembles with mute fury - mortality offends him. She feels the violence simmering beneath the weight of her thu'um and understands her time is _short._

Sif has only her left hand. The glass gauntlet has seen better days, but it is still functional. Her throat is raw, but beneath the pounding of her own mortality she feels the soft bloom of recovering magicka.

She slams her fist into the dragon's eye and screams out her last spell.

Alduin roars; the sky seems to shatter, and dragon and dragonborn plummet from the roof of the world together.

(_And the Wheel turns upon the last dragonborn_.)

* * *

Erandur pounds his fists raw against the doors of High Hrothgar. He screams with the desperation of a sane man in a world gone mad, but the wind whips his words away; they scatter like ashes on a stormy sea.

There are tears, perhaps. His lashes are frozen together, and the tips of his fingers have begun to show the early signs of frostbite. The priest has yet to notice. His cowl flaps open and flutters behind him like a half-mast flag.

Erandur screams.

Only the wind whistles in response.

* * *

Here is a tale for the bards: Once upon a time a girl with golden hair went up the mountain.

She didn't come back down.

A/N:

I've buffed up Alduin because the title "World Eater" ought to mean something, and I'm changing Erandur's abilities to actually make some sense with his background. Because seriously Bethesda, what the hell.

SRSLY.

Everything will make sense eventually. I think.


	2. 01: arrival

A/N: March 10, 2015: Minor edits (Sigrid and Alvor now speak with their in-game drawl).

Part I: A Quiet Life

the blacksmith's wife/riverwood

[arrival]

Alvor dropped his hammer with a sudden clang, and Sigrid knew something was wrong.

The sun was high in the sky. Sigrid had taken Alvor his midday meal an hour ago; they were both creatures of habit now, and she had expected hear the steady pounding of his hammer against the anvil until the sun began to dip behind the trees. Instead she heard a clatter and a sharp, sudden oath. She stopped sweeping. Alvor's tread was always heavy, but rarely hurried; the hard cadence of his steps sent her to the door, broom forgotten against the table.

The door swung inward. Alvor's ruddy face was grim, and over his shoulder was an effigy of mud and matted here. There was a reek, like blood and charred skeever meat, like sweat and mud and a town in ashes.

"Hot water. Clean linens. Where's Dorthe?" Sigrid gaped. Alvor craned his head to bellow over his shoulder. "Dorthe!" Behind him was another traveler, similarly filthy and stinking of a charnel house. She didn't recognize him until he spoke.

"Aunt Sigrid," he said, and with a start she recognized the brown doe-eyes of her nephew.

The next few minutes were a blur. Hadvar sat gingerly on a wooden bench, favouring his right leg. Sigrid dumped half a barrel's worth of water into the cauldron, and stoked the fire until it roared; Alvor set his burden down gently in their bed, and Sigrid could not stop the reflexive wince at the sight of her clean sheets mottling beneath the filthy, if pitiful, creature.

Sigrid tended to her nephew first – or tried to. Perhaps it was small of her, to leave their gravely injured guest for her nephew, but -

Sigrid was a family-woman. She knew where her loyalties lay.

And yet Hadvar had always been a soft-hearted boy – too soft for the Legion, she'd said, over and over – and he pleaded his case with heart, if not eloquence.

"She saved my life," he said, again, and this was the fifth time he'd said so. It was like a litany now, and Sigrid finally won the argument by slapping their last potion into his hands and forcefully curling his fingers around it.

"Clean tha' leg first." Sigrid put down a metal bowl – one of her largest, a fine gift from Alvor during the first year of their marriage – and placed strips of linen onto a tray. "By Kynareth, ye've got rocks in yer _knee_ -" and it was true. There were pebbles embedded into his knee in a large swath that spoke its path plainly: a hard fall, then a skid on loose pebbles and rocks – and it was obvious that he could not clean the wound himself. Not properly, at any rate.

A shadow fell over them. Alvor knelt before his nephew, vegetable brush in hand. "I'll see to Hadvar." He turned to Dorthe, hovering in the doorway. "Get Camilla. We'll be needing some potions too." The girl left; Sigrid took a basin of hot water and stooped over the bed.

She would have never guessed that this was a woman. Not if Hadvar hadn't said so. She reeked of blood and ash, was covered in filth – her hair was a matted skeever's nest of black, straggly locks, and there was wound about half her face what appeared to be the remains of a filthy rag. Her clothes were threadbare and so ill-fitting that it was a wonder she was not swallowed whole. It was obvious, even to her inexpert eyes, that the fabric would have to be cut away. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her skin hot with fever.

Sigrid did not think she would survive the night. She wondered if they ought to even bother with potions, but no – she knew her husband. Hadvar owed the girl his life – or so he had claimed – and so Alvor would repay her in kind. It would not matter to Alvor that Dorthe was outgrowing her clothes at a rate that rivaled the weeds (_Hadvar's old clothes will fit her,_ he'd say, nevermind a girl needed skirts, not breeches), or that a sudden, wintry chill had sent their garden greens to shrivel back into the soil; Alvor's honour would have the final say.

Sigrid loved her husband. But sometimes, she wanted to hit him over the head with the broom.

She was in the middle of wetting the rag wound around the girl's head, coaxing the blood-soaked garment from her skin, when Camilla arrived with a small satchel of potions. Dorthe peeked at them from the doorway until Alvor took her by the hand and led her out; the door swung shut and Sigrid could hear voices on the porch, though she could not make out the words.

"Sigrid." Camilla nodded her greeting, eyes serious as she examined their patient.

The imperial girl had a steady hand, Sigrid had to give her that. The cloth fell away, and they both gagged at the putrid smell that rose from the naked wounds. Hadvar limped to them from his seat.

"Is it bad? Will she make it" _Nay._ Sigrid kept her peace. She wasn't _cruel, _though the likely outcome was obvious even to her. Camilla took a shallow breath through her mouth, face averted.

"She needs a priest."

"We don't have a priest." Hadvar's eyes glittered like a doe's in the lamplight. It gave him a mournful, pleading look; when he'd been younger, that look had put a sweetroll from every kitchen in Riverwood straight into his sticky little hands...But no, Hadvar was a young man now, a Legionnaire with a limp; Sigrid hoped the wound would not cripple him.

Camilla rolled up her sleeves. "I can try. But Hadvar -" She glanced at his pleading expression, face shuttered as she looked away - "We'll need to drain this first."

It was a long, hard night.

* * *

Later, Sigrid slept in a chair while her daughter and her husband lay on the floor. They did not have enough furs, so they used hay from Delphine's inn, stuffing the fistfuls of the thick, long grass beneath their cloaks to use as a make-shift bed. Dorthe had been delighted - "Camping _indoors! _Frodnar will be_so jealous!_" - because she was a small child who did not know any better, who did not understand that sickness sometimes led to death.

Hadvar slept backwards in Dorthe's bed, bad leg propped up on the headboard. In Sigrid's marriage bed lay the ruin of a woman whose life teetered on a knife's edge; Sigrid knew she lived by the occasional whimper, though she lay still as the ancient stones. Sigrid's vigil would last all night, though Alvor had protested, had tried to persuade her into shifts.

Sigrid had refused, of course. Smithing was dangerous in the best of times, and she would not abide the thought of him hammering away after a restless night with too much stress and too little sleep. She would watch over this sad, dying creature alone.

In the end, the potions had come cheaply enough. Considering. Lucan had come to fetch Camilla not long after dark, citing her his greatest treasure; Sigrid had scoffed inwardly, knowing full well that he had come to settle the price of this strangers life, bought with potions and spells. Alvor had an order of two sets of horseshoes from Lucan last week. That and a promise of a new axe and a replacement lock had secured three precious potions.

There had been an impasse on the spells.

"Restoration has a price," he'd said, and like all Imperials it was gold and barter that ran through his veins, "and my sister _is_ exhausted." Behind him, the girl had crumpled her face into a frown.

"Well those were _my_ spells," she'd said, with a discreet kick at his ankle, "and I'll charge what I like. One of your pies this Sundas would do nicely, I think." The girl had winked at her from behind her brother's back. She had been too tired to wink back.

The stranger whimpered in her sleep. Sigrid wetted her dry, cracked lips with a damp cloth, then back down. It was dark inside the house, and the single, guttering candle light did little to banish the shadows that creep along the edges of her vision; her eyelids slid shut as her head began to droop.

There was a soft, rustling sound. Sigrid felt a familiar pair of arms lift her from the chair as easily as though she were a child; she tried to speak but could only mumble out vague, nonsensical syllables, eyelids twitching as she tried to force herself awake.

"Shhhh. Sleep, Sigrid. I'll watch 'er fer a while." Alvor's voice was a soft rumble in his chest.

There is a feather-soft brush of warm, chapped lips across her brow; Sigrid slept.


	3. 02: silver on a mountain

A/N:

March 10, 2015: Edited to cut out overtly obvious plot points, and fixed the horribly random perspective shifts.

the restless wolf/the pale

[silver on a mountain]

Vilkas woke.

_Woke_ was a relative term; Vilkas never really slept. Every night, his body walked itself to his bed, lay down, and slid bruised eyelids over bruise-ringed eyes. Every night he lay awake, watching his dreams play beneath closed eyelids; it was the sleep of the wicked, a sleep with neither rest nor respite.

And the wolf was never far away at night. It snuffled at the door, pawed at the floor of his belly and peered out through his eyes. It roiled restlessly in his veins with every whisper of forest beasts; there was no closing his ears and the night sang to him in soft whispers between crisp autumn leaves and in the smell of dirt and fur, blood and fury. Vilkas could feel his hands and feet twitch beneath his bedroll. He wanted to run. He wanted to strip naked, shed his skin and howl at the stars and _run_ and _run _and _run_; he wanted to chase the smells carried on the cold night air, from the little mouse tunnelling through the snow beneath the snowberry bush to the men tramping up through the brush.

And as it would turn out, this was precisely why it was nigh well impossible to sneak up on _a_ werewolf, nevermind _two_.

Autumn in the Pale was very much like its winter: cold, and full of snow. The air smelled crisply of pine and creeping ice, so clean he could taste it between his teeth. And so, naturally, he smelled the old man first.

Piss, shit, and old ale. Vomit dried in rivulets down a greasy beard full of fleas and an unsteady heartbeat that whispered secret weakness in the lungs and arteries. Vilkas could divine more sin and failure in one breath than most priests could pry from a hundred confessions: Hircine's curse, Hircine's blessing.

His twin lay across from him, dark figure still and steady beneath the bedroll. Farkas' eyes gleamed in the wan light, a wild beast looking through the bars of human skin. Vilkas wondered if his twin saw the same in him; the wind shifted, bringing with it more scents, more fragile creatures who thought themselves hunters, and the brothers prey.

His heart thumped in its cage, pulse beating a hunter's rhythm as the night called him.

There were four of them, just a small, ragtag group bent on murder and money. How they had found the Companions' camp – dark, fire-less and thus smokeless – was a mystery to be solved later, at leisure. Right now, there was an assassin stealing her way in, steps quiet in the new-fallen snow that blanketed the Pale. Vilkas and Farkas lay still in their bedrolls, breathing slow and steady as though vulnerable in sleep.

One would-be killer stealing in. Two manoeuvring behind the snow-laden brush – for Farkas, no doubt, the giant of the two – and the last, reeking of piss and failure, closing in from the west, skirting the copse of pine. He was keeping his distance – an archer, then.

Farkas' eyes flicked to the brush. _Two in the bush, one in your hand._ It was true; the sneak-thief was closing in on Vilkas, thinking to get him out of the way quickly. Farkas looked at him. On a night with no moons there was none to see the elder's mouth count down an ending to the stuttering heartbeat of a failing bandit lord – none but the children of the Lord's own wild hunt. None but the blessed of Hircine.

_Three...two...one. _They moved as one. One moment, the woman was leaning over Vilkas, knife in hand; in the next moment, a sudden surge of movement as a hard hand clamped over her mouth, another hand engulfing her knife wrist to direct her intended thrust upwards, over the pulse in her own throat.

She died without a sound. Blood sprayed, hot and dark over white snow and a rumpled fur bedroll.

Farkas rolled over with a sleeper's grunt, one last rouse buying him precious seconds as he continued rolling, up into a crouch then simply _up_, powerful legs launching him into a skulker skirting the edge of the brush. Farkas used his head – literally. The bandit wasn't wearing a helm – not on a night like this, where the gleam of metal or a soft clank of a gauntlet against helm could mean that fine line between success and failure, life or death. Lucky they were so thoughtful: Farkas hadn't worn one either. Not to sleep in – that would have been stupid. The last Vilka saw was Farkas moving faster than any man his size had any right to – then a tortured c_runk _followed by a thin howl of agony.

Farkas would be just fine.

Vilkas took to the trees. No fire made the task easy, shadows swimming with every sway of gnarled branches crowned with ice and crackling leaves. Starlight shone bright as torchlight to his eyes, lighting the way into the thicket where the archer lurked.

Vilkas could _smell _him; could smell the fear and failure, the days and nights with nothing but mead in his mouth and despair in his belly. _Pathetic. _He crouched, moving carefully over the snow, timing his steps to the clash of steel on steel and the rhythm of swaying branches. The snow was harder here, tipped in ice; Aela would have ghosted over the thin crust without a sound, light as a snowflake.

Vilkas was not a snowflake. Not anything close. He manoeuvred around the scalloped edges that had formed beneath the relentless wind, skirting through soft powder to keep his steps silent.

The old man had rock joint. Vilkas could see it, could see the stiffness as he pulled an arrow from the quiver at his waist, saw his elbows lock as he tried to pull back for a killing shot.

He was old. Weak.

_Prey._

He did not snarl when he struck. He did not growl. He made not a single sound from his throat but the simple noise of air pulled into straining lungs; his dagger came softly from its sheathe, the hard slide of Skyforge steel muffled against a thick hide lining.

When he struck he struck hard, like a smith's hammer against the anvil: technique and strength, turned to a single purpose. Beneath their hall and honour, the Companions were all the same, every last one of them. They were trained killers, hard hearts beneath the songs and valour.

Vilkas took him from behind. A sudden spring from beneath the low-hanging branches of a half-withered pine took him well within arm's length of the old bandit. It was a simple matter of clamping one hand over his nose and mouth, the other hand coming in with the dagger to press the fine steel edge against his jugular.

"Drop it." The bandit made a noise, halfway between a keen and a wheeze. He obeyed. Vilkas kicked the hidebound bow away, down the small hill where it disappeared into a snow bank. Vilkas glanced down towards the camp site, eyes tracking the large looming shape that was his twin as it stalked a slight, stumbling figure. Beyond the two moving figures, dark shapes lay still in the snow, darkness leaking into the white. The air tasted of metal and death.

Without a word, Vilkas kicked the old man to his knees. His dagger didn't shake, didn't give an inch; Vilkas pressed his knee in between the man's shoulder blades, shoving him face-down into the snow. He gripped the man's shaggy mane in one fist, the threat of the blade an omnipresent kiss against the filthy throat.

He let the old man angle his face to the side to breathe. "Who sent you?" The interrogation was calm, dispassionate. Vilkas didn't bother to shake the man. To do so would be to surrender to the blood song throbbing through his veins; the temptation to grip that frail neck between his jaws, to worry it until the blood flowed hot over his tongue and teeth, until the stiff bones of the neck yielded with the satisfying snap of separating vertebrae...

_No._

Vilkas grit his teeth, forcing the phantom sensation away. "I will not ask again. Answer me."

The old man wheezed out a rattling breath. He opened his mouth as though to speak, then spat, one last act of ineffectual defiance against a stronger enemy. A sharp _snap_ echoed through the wood, followed shortly by an agonized howl. Vilkas let him scream just long enough to hear himself before shoving his face into the snow.

"Try again." The bandit snorted the snow away from his mouth as he panted.

"Your whore mother. Fucked her 'til -" This time Vilkas slammed the man's face full into the ground. There was a meaty, wet crack as his nose broke against the immutable ground. The man would have screamed but for Vilkas, who smashed his face down again, with a sort of ruthless efficiency that was the particular domain of men of violent honour.

"Last chance."

"Fuck yourself." Or at least, that's what Vilkas assumed he'd said. It sounded more like, "Phhhgggk nnrrsffng," and Vilkas angled the bandit's head sideways to keep the blood and mucus that sprayed with every laboured, huffing breath away.

"I'm going to kill you," Vilkas said, blunt and unhurried, "but how I do it is up to you." The old bandit suddenly strained against his grip, tearing his head from the Companion's unyielding grip. Hair and skin tore away, leaving blood weeping in its wake as the bandit turned to stare Vilkas in the eyes.

And Vilkas saw him then; he saw how the young boy survived his paces to be come a man, an old man. His rheumy eyes were hard beneath the meat, a killer's soul shining though the windows. This one would tell no tales.

So Vilkas slit his throat.

He waited until the body stopped twitching, cleaning his blade against the bandit's filthy rags. Not that Villas smelled of roses himself; he hadn't managed to avoid all the blood, hadn't angled himself quite right.

Villas left the trees to find his brother.

His twin was a dark shape looming in the clearing, a hulking bear of a figure in pursuit of a stumbling, fleeing figure. Farkas' wide, lopping strides ate up distance the way certain Jarls did their treasury; he caught up momentarily, simply gripping the smaller figure's head with one large hand, dragging the figure towards him until he could get both hands around the skull. Farkas gave one, violent twist the the body sagged, convulsing. Vilkas watched as Farkas gently lowered the twitching body to the snowclad ground and closed its eyes.

The elder frowned. "That boy was a pit skeever." Vilkas strode into the disheveled campsite, wiping a handful of snow over his face. There were dark streaks over his collar and down his shirt. In his hand he still held his dagger in a loose, dexterous grip that betrayed nothing.

Farkas shrugged. "I know. Dead." Vilkas grunted, striding past him to their small, dark camp. As though on cue, they heard a lone howl over the crest of the hill; it was soon joined by other voices.

"Leave them for the wolves." Vilkas stripped down in the snow, crumpling the stained clothes into a ball before stuffing them into his bag. He shrugged on his weapon-shirt, then started tugging on his armour. Not the full plate they wore in Whiterun – it was too heavy, too cumbersome for fast travelling – but a fine set of scale mail that sat well with fur surcoats and cloaks. As always, the collar and gauntlets were adorned with the snarling head of a stylized wolf. Suddenly, he paused, eyes narrowing as his gaze swung to Farkas' hand. "Your hand. What's wrong with it?"

Farkas blinked, looked down. Still dressed in his sleeping clothes he had gone into battle with naked hands. Across one palm was a livid red welt, as though he had carelessly picked up a red-hot poker.

"Oh." Vilkas watched the battle replay over his brother's face. "There. I grabbed his sword by the blade. Blunt. Didn't hurt." They walked over where a bald bear of a man – big, though not bigger than Farkas – lay sprawled in a heap. Vilkas crouched, searching the body for the tell-tale sword.

"Unalloyed silver." There was a mutual pause.

"Dress. Then we'll check the rest."

They went about the rest of their business in silence.

* * *

In the end, it had only been the short sword. Vilkas had been thorough, going through each of the bandits possessions methodically, even going as far as to backtrack down the valley until the bandits' tracks disappeared beneath a light pre-dawn snowfall; the discovery had soured the elder twin's mood irreparably. It was impossible to tell why a common brigand would have held such a weapon. Perhaps he had pilfered it, or looted it from a corpse. Perhaps he had been a werewolf hunter come upon hard times, forced to join with a group of highwaymen. Or perhaps this had been merely a taste of things to come; perhaps -

\- perhaps they had been set up.

They returned to the road, setting a brisk pace in the chill of an early morning snowfall. Vilkas always knew the way; he never left Jorrvaskr without first memorizing a map, and getting lost in the _Pale_ was a death sentence, werewolves or no.

Even so, the unrelenting white landscape made navigation a chore.

His first inclination was to hunt. Coincidence or design, the answer would come if he greased the right palms and broke the right noses; surely someone would recognize the sword, a sword of unalloyed silver that had once been a thing of beauty, before its owner had allowed time and negligence to dull its edge to a club-like forbearance.

Yet Kyne had other plans for the day.

"Storm's coming." Farkas' breath steamed up to the darkening sky.

"I know." It was true; the weather had begun to turn, rapidly and with little warning. What had started as light, seasonal snow was rapidly thickening to become a curtain of white death. Farkas grunted.

"Maybe we should camp. In the trees." Vilkas shook his head.

"Might be a bad one. We don't have supplies for more than two nights. Three if we stretch it." They continued walking, the road nearly gone beneath their feet. Thank Imperial cobblestones – they could feel the stone study beneath their boots, though they could not see the tell-tale grey. "There's an inn just up the way. Nightgate, they call it. We'll make it if we hurry."

The twins travelled on.

It was past noon when they saw the lights of Nightgate Inn glowing through the snow. Past noon, though the sky was grey and the snow so thick that it seemed the twins were locked in some perpetual twilight; the wind had started to howl, snow and ice striking their exposed faces like tiny darts of pure winter malice. They nearly slammed through the doors.

It was a relief to be indoors. The door shut behind them with a resounding _boom_ as the twins shook the snow from their hair and clothes. The innkeeper called a greeting; Vilkas only managed an acknowledging grunt, his jaw seemingly frozen shut with his mouth in its perpetual scowl. Farkas ambled to the fire, settling himself as close as possible without setting himself alight; a bleary-eyed drunk glared from his corner before going back to his bottle.

"Hello there, travellers. Nasty weather to be out, aye?" The innkeeper was stout and stolid, a proper Nord with a grizzled beard and matching scar over one eye. Vilkas gestured for a drink, feigning absorption in the rack behind the man as he sized him up.

_Ale and cheese, old stains sticky on the floor and brown beneath his fingernails. Something sour in his mouth and throat, bubbling up from his belly. Sharp eyes, fast words. Ears perking up like a hunting hound's. Hands curve just as comfortably around cups and weapon shafts. Never one for archery, wrists held too loose and close when he holds the bow. _

_Glory days long behind him._

Vilkas accepted his cup of mulled alto wine, trading in his septims. The flavour was all wrong but it was warm; there were worse things in the world than weak warm wine.

"Damn storm came up out of nowhere." Farkas sneezed from ten paces behind him, facing the fire. The floorboards creaked as the drunk in the corner shifted, slouching. The innkeeper – Hadring, he'd said – just nodded.

"Happens year-round, hereabouts." Vilkas gestured for another glass. Hadring slid it down the counter in one smooth, practised motion, muscles uncoiling in a way that suggested he had some swing in him yet.

"Road disappeared under all the snow." Vilkas shook his head, convincingly disgusted. "We were hired to clear out some bandits not too far off Dimhollow Crypt. Not damn likely now."

"Bandits off Dimhollow Crypt?" Hadring lifted an incredulous eyebrow. "Not from Jarl Skald, you didn't. He clears them out the moment they start harrying folk on the road." Vilkas took another swig of his wine.

"Is that so?"

"Aye. Jarl Skald rules the old way. And I'd know if he'd posted any bounties. Whereabouts did you say again?" Vilkas unfurled his hand-drawn map. The paper was travel-stained, taking badly to cold and moisture. Still, he had a clear, steady hand and the ink was still good, lines bold and straight. Hadring's eyebrows shot up.

"_There?_ No, no. You were ill-told, friend. That's no bandit fort – not anymore – the Vigilants cleaned them out years ago. It's a prayer hall now."

Farkas snorted ale through his nose, and promptly started coughing. Vilkas didn't even glance his way, grey eyes intent on Hadring's face as the man continued speaking.

"I don't know where you got your bounty, friend, but the Vigilants are no bandits. They keep to themselves, but I don't think they'd take kindly to your trespassing, especially with your steel out."

Vilkas finally smiled. It was not a very pleasant smile; there was a certain wolfish quality to the baring of teeth. Hadring nearly recoiled, catching himself mere seconds before the physical gesture could form. Vilkas watched as the man busied himself with vigorously wiping the smooth, clean counter with his rag. The beast in him wanting to _push_, to see the man fall back, eyes fearful as death stalked near...

Vilkas pulled himself back, smoothed his expression down to something much more _civil_; invisible hackles falling, non-existent fangs sliding into a closed, thinly smiling mouth. Transformation complete, Vilkas wore an expression of mild irritation, the sort of expression a hired sword would wear upon hearing his quarry did not exist. Hadring eyed him with residual wariness, instinct warring with the everyday logic of complacent prey. Civilization won out.

"Well, then, it seems we've been lead hunting dragon tales, my brother and I." He slapped down another handful of septims. "A hot meal for my brother and I, and a room for the night. And bathwater." He paused. "If you have it."

Hadring brightened considerably at the sight of gleaming coins.

"Aye, of course. And -" he leaned over the counter, expression suddenly boyish, like that of a child imparting some great secret - "speaking of dragons, it seems you've not heard the news." Vilkas blinked, looked at him in askance. "Helgen. Helgen's _gone -_" Surprise flickered over the rugged face. "- And they say a dragon did it. _Dragons._ Dragons have returned to Skyrim!"


	4. 03: tinker, tailor, soldier, courier

the archer/whiterun

[tinker, tailor, soldier, courier]

Faendal fidgeted. He couldn't quite help it – the dunmer housecarl had a glare that could shrivel the balls off a mammoth.

"You were at Helgen?"

"Er...not so much, no." The frigid expression somehow grew more frightening. How was that even _possible_? "T-t-that is to say, ah, we have survivors back home – home back in, uh, Riverwood. Two. Two survivors. Our own Hadvar and a stranger. Called her Eir, I think. That is, Hadvar told me – uh. Ahem." Meekly, he produced a letter from his satchel. "Hadvar wrote a report...?" She took the proffered letter, and Faendal tried not to sag visibly with relief. Lucky for Faendal, Hadvar had always had a firm head on his shoulders. He'd written up a full report – crisp, to the point, just like a Legionnaire – and told him to take it up to Whiterun. Faendal could see that soldiering _had_ been good for him, though Sigrid would never agree.

Irileth's crimson eyes never left the paper as she spoke. "And why have you been sent in place of the survivors?" The bosmer shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, they're in, uh, no condition. For the road, I mean." Not a lie, technically. Hadvar probably _could_ travel, but Sigrid had demanded he stay until the limp was gone in its entirety. Besides, Faendal had a feeling the city he made for would be Solitude, not Whiterun. The lad was chomping at the bit already. As for the girl...

He'd never forget that scream. He'd heard it clear from his side of Riverwood; her body had recovered well enough in the days gone by, but...

No, the girl was not fit for travel. Was not fit for much of anything, actually.

The nightblade nodded curtly. "You've done well, citizen. Report to Avenicci for your reward." Faendal saluted her smartly, though she couldn't see it through the page, and strode away as briskly as possible without outright running. Irileth was just _frightening, _especially since her idea of a greeting was to start with the tip of her weapon. _Sweet merciful Divines._

He very nearly ran over Proventus as he stepped from the dais. "Pardon!" The steward gave him a vague, distracted smile as he hurried up the steps to the throne.

"Or – okay, I guess I'll just wait for you here then." Faendal was _not_ going up those steps again. Not while Irileth was there, at least.

There was a small child glaring up at him from the table. Faendal stared back, mostly for lack of anything better to do.

"It's rude to stare," he said. The child's answering smirk was markedly unpleasant.

"Only wondering if you enjoyed the taste of father's boots." _Hey!_ Why that little - ! Before Faendal could give the brat a well-deserved thrashing – well, _tongue-lashing_, since he was obviously the spawn of their mighty jarl – Balgruuf's voice boomed through the hall.

"E_nough_! I will _not_ sit idly by while a _dragon burns down my hold!_ Irileth, send in the militia. Proventus -" Whatever Balgruuf had said to Proventus was too quiet to be heard, even with his bosmer ears. Regardless, the effect was that he looked as though he'd bitten into something foul as he stalked down the steps; Faendal didn't really want to be the target of that look, but he did have to get going, and traveling – even on foot – did cost coin, mostly for things like food and lodging. Faendal wasn't stupid enough to camp out less than two days out from _Helgen_. That was like begging to be eaten. Or mugged.

"Ahem. Excuse me? I was told I should talk to you about, you know, my courier fee -" reward, actually, but courier fee just sounded less grasping, "- and I do have to get going, you know, the wood isn't going to chop _itself_ and all -" Proventus stopped cold. Turned. Looked the wood elf up and down as though assessing a barnyard milk cow. Suddenly, the old man smiled, and cold sweat broke out over the back of Faendal's neck. He started to back away. Slowly. "On second thought, you know what? You can forget about that courier fee. I mean, Jarl Balgruuf's sending militia down to Riverwood, and that's reward enough for me, you see? So I'll be going now. Have a good -" Proventus' smile only grew wider.

"Nonsense! You've provided a service to your Jarl, and ought to be rewarded. Come with me." The old man had a shockingly strong grip. The bosmer _could_ have escaped – probably – but not without knocking the steward right over onto his unctuous ass. Likely, they would have then dragged _his_ ass down to the jail and _fined_ him for his troubles. No, thank you.

And so Faendal pasted on a smile and allowed himself to be steered by the elbow like some dumb sheep to the slaughter.

Shockingly, Proventus lead him to the armoury. Whistling, the old Imperial scanned over rows of well-oiled, well-kept leather armour. "Ah! This one ought to do." He held it up over Faendal's torso. "Yes, this should fit, don't you think?"

"Ah..."

"Of course it does. Much better than...whatever that is you're wearing."

"Um..." This was getting awkward. Clearly it was time to make things immeasurably worse. "I was thinking more like...coin. You know, septims. Like for every other courier in Skyrim."

And Proventus _smiled._ It was frightening to behold. The old Imperial clasped his hands together, as though to rub them together, but somehow managed to refrain; Faendal guts seemed to clench. "Of course you would. But you see, there is no _prescribed_ reward for reporting in a dragon attack. It's not in the budget – I'm sure you understand, with this war and all – _but_," and then he really _did_ rub his hands together. Gleefully. _Gleefully!_ "we _do _have some bounties that _are_ rewarded with _coin – and I have just the job _for a mer of your obvious skill!" He gestured to the unstrung bow slung over Faendal's back.

Oh _no._ Before Faendal could even protest, Avenicci was hustling him up the steps and into a set of rooms. "Wait-" Faendal sputtered, trying to disentangle his elbow from the old man's implacable grip, "I didn't mean – I mean to say, I only hunt with this bow – I mean, animals, I hunt animals -!" Proventus didn't bat an eye.

"Of course. But you see, I have quite the eye for these things. You would be the perfect mer for the job – and it's a good chance to break in this beauty!" He slapped the leather armour in Faendal's arms. Faendal hadn't even known he'd taken it – when had he draped it over his arm? "Our court wizard needs an able man – or mer- to do the jarl a great service. Surely with all this talk of dragons, you'd be happy to assist. Helgen _is_ only a day or so from Riverwood. You see?" No, no, he didn't see. He was just a woodcutter who liked to occasionally shoot arrows at deer and other tasty animals. Faendal hadn't worked a bounty in a long, long time – not since he'd settled here, settled into Riverwood and its peaceful rhythm beside the stream.

Proventus was still talking. "Our court wizard has been looking for an able body – er, _individual_ to take care of a small, but _well-rewarded_ task -"

"Wait, no, I was just here as a messenger, I don't even -"

"- Ah here he is. Master Secret-Fire!" _Secret-Fire? What kind of _stupid _name is "Secret-Fire"?_

"- manage to take down an elk half the time, really, so why -" The mage in question looked up from his table. By the looks of things, the man spent most of his time in these rooms – obviously a magical laboratory of some sort, with alchemical ingredients and other magic-related sundries dotting the room generously. Faendal could tell he was the sort of man to put things down wherever he was when something else happened to catch his eye; the room was _that_ kind of cluttered. Just looking at it all made him dizzy.

"Another one?" Faendal couldn't see the man's expression beneath his hood, but his tone was unimpressed.

"Uh, 'another one'? What do you mean, _'another one'_?" Proventus cut in, voice slicker than grease in a pan.

"Master Secret-Fire simply meant that many are currently seeking this particular bounty-"

"The other ones died." The wizard shrugged, as though to say, _too bad, so sad._ Proventus glared.

"- and I am sure you have everything well in-hand, Farengar. Good evening to you both." The old steward stalked out, back straight, the very image of a well-miffed Imperial courtier. There was a pause.

"There's been some sort of mistake. I'm just the courier." Faendal started to back away, only belatedly realizing that "Farengar Secret-Fire" was circling him in the slow, assessing way of a farmer at the pig market. "So you see, I'll be...going...now..."  
"You might do."

"Er, no, I -"

"You look sneaky enough. The other ones tried the direct approach, you see. It didn't work. But _you._ You look light on your feet."

"...No." The wizard continued as though he hadn't heard.

"There is an old ruin north of Riverwood called Bleak Falls Barrows..."

Faendal shut his eyes. There was no way he was going to do this. Absolutely not. Faendal did not go _grave-robbing _at the whims of some – some – oily old steward and his mage.

"...quite simple, really, all you need is to sneak inside the bandit hideout and..."

"I'm not your errand boy. I don't care what your bounty is, and you have the wrong mer." Secret-Fire cocked his head and looked at him – really looked at him – for the first time. Faendal's nerves began to hum _danger danger danger._

It was then that he noticed Secret-Fire was smiling beneath the hood. Smiling! What was _wrong_ with these people?

With an inner groan, Faendal braced himself for an argument. Damnable courtiers. Faendal would take a hundred years of Riverwood over a day of city intrigue any day.

_And by Y'ffre's green boughs_, _next time he was going to go hide out in the forest until they sent that idiot Sven!_

* * *

Whiterun lay behind him, slumbering with the sun. Dawn was hours away and the air was cool, scented sharply with the smell of mountain flowers and pine.

He had spent far too much time in that city.

In the end, he had refused. The wizard hadn't seemed too put out – the man was as blasé as they came – shrugging off the strongly worded refusal like water rolling off an oilskin cloak. "Come by again if you change your mind," he'd said, and that had been that.

Proventus had given him the evil eye on his way out, though.

Faendal hadn't meant to tarry for days. He'd left Dragonsreach with the intention of visiting Anoriath – just to say hello, really – and to rest and retire at the Huntsman. He would head back to Riverwood before dawn.

Or so he'd thought.

It had started well enough. He'd said hello to Anoriath, and bought some salt and traveler's jerky for the road. At some point, Anoriath had sweet-talked him into taking a look at a new batch of arrows Elrindir had fletched, which led to Faendal deciding he actually did need some more arrows, after all, which lead to, _"Why Faendal, there's plenty more at the Huntsmen, how about we go down together once I close up here, I could use a hand," _which lead to, of course, Faendal dutifully helping his friend close down shop and carting it all back to the tavern.

As it turned out, Elrindir had been bored out of his mind; simple conversation turned into commiseration (mostly a string of the most alarming abuse at the _fine, noble courtiers_ of Dragonsreach), and, as the hour grew long, their thoughts turned to supper. The elder huntsman had set a delicious meal of venison stew, grilled leeks, and baked potatoes, topped off with a crisp apple pie from the Mare,and then...

...the drinking games. _By Sanguine's merry tits,_ the drinking games.

It had started well enough, just the bottles of mead Elrindir had stocked on his shelves. But two bottles in, the rather terrifying dunmer sellsword – Jenassa, if he remembered correctly – had retired to her rooms, and Anoriath had decreed they ought to try the _good stuff_, staggering down into the cellar and bringing up, of all things, _fermented milk with elk blood, _a bosmeri treat Faendal hadn't had since...well, since before he'd set foot in Skyrim.

It was just as good as he remembered.

A good night, followed by an absolutely wretched morning; Faendal and his hosts had been _indisposed_, laying exactly where they had fallen the night before with the shutters closed. Jenassa came down at some point in the morning, sadistically amused at the sight of three bosmer huntsmen laid out on the tavern floor like green striplings. She'd been deliberately loud, Faendal was certain.

"My, how delightfully amusing. And pathetic." Jenassa stomped – _stomped, _literally, because the dunmer had the lightest feet of all of them, it was clearly deliberate- sending spikes of agony through Faendal's skull until Elrindir had hollered from his position on the floor, "_We're not open today, go away!"_

Jenassa had burst out laughing. "I live here." She'd wandered over to where the older sibling lay prone, prodding him with a booted foot. Elrindir had only whimpered, curling into a tight ball of misery.

"Jenassa..."

Anoriath's voice had warbled unsteadily, though his demand had been clear. "Arcadia's. Hair-of-horse remedy. _Please._"

The sellsword had only tutted, the mild sound striking Faendal's eardrums like arrows on a tin roof. "Are you _hiring_ me to fetch something from Arcadia's, Anoriath?" By _Y'ffre_.

"Jenassa. _Please._" Elrindir had sounded absolutely wretched. "Discount for the next night if you go."

"My hiring price is five hundred septims, Elrindir." She had actually sounded _insulted._

"Jenassa!"

The bargaining had continued, and it was all Faendal could do to tuck his aching head beneath his arms and whimper.

In the end, she had agreed. The mer was ruthless – she'd gotten free nights at the Huntsman until her half her hiring price had been met, _and_ they'd reimbursed her for the potions. What a bloody terror.

And that was why Faendal was out here now, more than an hour out of Whiterun, stalking a bull and his harem in the pre-dawn dark. Anoriath was a shapeless shadow crouching uphill amidst the brush with the absolute patience of a master hunter; Faendal watched from his position behind the rocks, sheltered beneath the low-hanging boughs of a leaning pine that sheltered him from the keen eyes of their prey.

It hadn't just been that the brothers had missed a day of work; Faendal hadn't had the coin to cover his portion of the potions, either. And while neither brother had seemed to particularly care, it hadn't sat well with him to leave them like that. It simply wasn't Faendal's way.

And so here he was, hunting with Anoriath. In truth, Faendal didn't even mind it. It had been far too long since he'd gone hunting with a fellow bosmer; he'd missed it more than he'd realized. It wasn't the same, hunting alone, and Nords – well. Nords. They had a funny way of hunting, which involved a lot of yelling and general chaos. And spears. Nords were very fond of their spears.

Anoriath raised a hand and signaled. Faendal uncoiled from his position behind the rock, readying his bow. He'd get one shot, two at most. If the bull survived that, well...

He'd have to rely on his partner to sort that out, preferably _before_ he was pulverized by fifty stones of furious elk.

Anoriath was out of sight behind the hill, using the bushes as cover as he moved stealthily in the dark. Well out of sight, he bugled.

There was a trick to hunting elk during the rut, namely, covering oneself in cow urine and bugling like a rival. Anoriath, Faendal had to admit, had an _excellent_ bugle. He'd carved that horn himself, he'd said, and Faendal had been well impressed with the work. There was no telling the difference between a call from the horn and a call from a bull.

The results were predictable.

The bull came huffing from the herd of cows and calves, bugling frantically as he sought out his audacious rival. Faendal could hear the aggravated pants from his position behind the rock; the bull moved closer, calling out another challenge. From behind the hill, Anoriath obliged with an answer.

Ten yards. Eight. Five yards. _Come on. Walk by the rock. Just a big further. That's right..._

The bull stopped, swaying his head to and fro as though making a decision. The herd was behind him now, grazing peacefully, the low murmur of elk voices rumbling over the plain.

The bull huffed, snorted once, twice, shook his massive head and began to walk away.

_No!_

Anoriath bugled again, sudden and strident, far closer than he had been before. Faendal did not startle. Hunter's instinct settled over him like a well-worn cloak. He could smell the bull now, reeking of mud and musk as it snuffled closer, suspicious and keen. Black eyes peered from beneath dark fringed lashes from within a massive head; this one was a king, stately with wide set antlers that could gore a mer even as they caught him on the branches and tossed him, like a rag doll.

A beautiful creature, well worthy of the hunt.

The bull moved well, with the fluid grace of a truly healthy animal. Faendal watched it come closer, watched the wide nostrils flare as it registered the scent of a cow – and Anoriath bugled again, just in time to aggravate the bull into an all out dash past the rock.

Faendal drew back his bow as he breathed. He could see the large black eyes of the bull as it passed him, gleaming wetly beneath the lights of Jone and Jode.

He released.

The first arrow took the bull in the eye. He screamed, sounding shockingly like a mer, thrashing wildly as though to dislodge the deadly bit of wood and metal lodged inside it's skull. The second arrow went wide, striking the quivering, jerking haunches instead of the throat. Faendal cursed, drew again, though by now the bull was running, shockingly fast for the blood that streamed like a banner from his wounds.

A third arrow took it in the throat. _Anoriath_.

The harem called out frantically, the herd racing away from their dethroned patriarch as he lay twitching on the plains of Whiterun. Faendal approached with his knife drawn, the edge sharp with mercy.

Above them, Jone and Jode faded as the sky bloomed violet with the rising sun.

* * *

It had taken most of the morning to dress the elk. Bosmeri hunters were particular about their kills, pact or no pact; waste did not exist. Aside from the prized meat, hide, and antlers, they had set aside the bones, guts, hooves, and blood, working until the sun grew hot on their backs. The two hunters stripped down and wadded into the White River. The water was freezing; the autumn sun was not enough to warm the fast-moving current.

Faendal scrubbed dutiful with sand and silt, shivering. "Bet you wish you could cast destruction spells right about now." Anoriath grinned through chattering teeth. "I once knew a mage back in Valenwood. Had the best tricks on the march. In bed too, come to think of it." Faendal rolled his eyes.

"Probably invented them just to be rid of your stink."

Anoriath laughed. "Probably! But speaking of mages..." Faendal bit back a groan, suddenly intent on pounding his bloody shirt against the rocks. "You tell her yet?"

"You said you were too drunk to remember that." Faendal grunted with effort as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn spot at the edge of his sleeve.

"I was too drunk to remember saying I was too drunk to remember that." Faendal didn't have to look to know the smile stretched over his fellow huntsman's face would be all innocent benevolence. _Go kiss a skeever's ass._

"And she's not a mage, she's a merchant. A good one." Anoriath rolled his eyes.

"...And there wasn't even a scar once she was done!" The damnable mer had forced his voice into a falsetto approximation of Faendal's . He grimaced, violently wringing his shirt and slapping it against the broadside of a rock with more force than strictly necessary. Anoriath rolled his wet shirt as though to wring it; Faendal relearned his lesson on turning his back on his friend when the end of said wet shirt smacked into the back of his head with a heavy _thwack_.

"Anoriath!"

"Faendal!" His voice was still that infuriating falsetto.

"Act your age, you skeever's ass!" Anoriath just laughed.

"I am!"

"Of all the-!" Faendal used both arms to drench the other elf with a wave of cold water. Anoriath, of course, gave as good as he got.

They clambered out once they couldn't feel their toes, laying out their clothes on the sun-baked rocks to dry. "But seriously," Anoriath was like a dog worrying a bone. "You should just tell her. You can't treat humans like mer, Faendal. They don't have the patience." Faendal just sighed.

"Look, forget I said anything, okay? I mean, I have a plan and all, so..."

"A plan and all? Right. Does this plan involve waiting until she's old and gray? Because that happens way faster for humans. Wait a few decades and -" he snapped his fingers, "- just like that. Old and ready for the grave."

"Anoriath!"

"Well, it's _true. _And let me ask you: is that bard fellow waiting?" Faendal was silent. "See? Thought so. My suggestion? Start with flowers, skip the poetry, and work your way up from there."

"Oh, shut up, you horse's ass."

"You'll thank me one day."

Once the hottest hours had passed, Anoriath circled back for the mare and cart he'd had prepared at the stables. She was a brave, sweet thing, obedient though the smell of blood made her snort and shy against her harness.

All in all, it was a good haul: fifty stones of elk, and three hares that had wandered into their traps.

They parted ways on the road. "May the Green guide you and keep you." They clasped their hands tightly, palm to palm, elbow to elbow, before stepping away. "Remember what I said. Flowers. Skip the poetry, you're hopeless."

"_Anoriath._" The mer just laughed, raising his hand in farewell before leading the mare down the road. Faendal hefted his pack – now heavier with a rabbit and a haunch of meat and bone – and began the long walk home.

* * *

It was dark by the time he saw Riverwood in the distance. A feeling of foreboding had rolled in with the clouds, and he'd lost time taking the long way through the woods in an effort to avoid fellow travelers on the road. He could not explain his sense of unease, but reasoned that with the events at Helgen and the encroaching civil war, traveling beneath the trees was only sensible.

In truth he had fully expected the sight of the sleepy little village to settle his heart; he was disappointed when the ill ease persisted.

_What is wrong with me,_ he wondered, _ jumping at the slightest shadow?_

He paused at the crossroads. All he had to do was take the road south. Then he would enter Riverwood proper, where he would find his own modest home and simple bed. It was small and humble, but it was his own. He would rest, and take Gerder the rabbit in the morning as an apology for his tardy self. There was enough elk bone to keep him busy making arrows for weeks.

Bleak Falls Barrow sat in the distance, a dark, wide spider squatting against a web of stars.

His feet were moving before he'd even realized it. _I'm not going in,_ he thought to himself. And yet, strangely, he felt compelled to look at it; he wanted to look at that ugly thing in his backyard that had been taking lives for months.

_Just half an hour_, he thought. He'd go up the slope and take a look, then walk home and straight to bed.

The ground was just starting to show signs of snow when he heard her scream.

At first he was sure he was dreaming; he'd gone home to bed and he was dreaming now. It could not be that voice. It could not be her; she was in the Riverwood Trader still, slumbering in her loft beneath strong wooden beams and a dream-warding charm made of birds' bones and raven feathers.

It could not be her.

Faendal slunk into the trees. He unslung his unwieldy pack of meats and drew his bow. He kept an arrow in hand, adjusted his quiver for easy access. Then he crouched low, fading into the night-dark shadows beneath the heavy boughs of Skyrim's sturdy trees.

The hunter skirted the treeline, keeping his eyes on the road. If there was one good thing to be said about the Empire, it was that they knew how to build roads. The cobblestones were distinctively wide, polished by years of wear; they gleamed beneath the light of the moons.

_There._ There was a woman on the road. He could not see details in the wan light, but he knew that proud bearing, that sweet, fluting voice.

Camilla was holding the wolves at bay with a dagger and a fistful of fire.

"Don't think I won't do it!" Her voice was strident, fearless. "I'll light you on _fire_, you flea-bitten mutts! Just come here and _try_ to bite me!"

The next few moments were instinct born of decades of practice. There were only two; they looked old, haggard, and one had a limp and a missing ear. The archer locked his sights on the scrapper – it _looked_ younger, was snarling around a mouthful of teeth as it danced away from the flashing flames crackling around her fist – and sent an arrow through the back of its skull.

The wolf never knew what hit it. It went down without a whimper, body twitching; the elder whirled, faster than he'd expected from a raggedy veteran with a limp.

It didn't matter how fast it was. An arrow was always faster.

The wolf sighted him not with his eyes but with his nose; Faendal could see its nostrils flare as it charged, bearing down on him with the mindless rage of the hopeless and hungry. It's snarling maw was missing teeth – big, black gaps where there should have been a gleam of ivory – and Faendal released two arrows in quick succession, both finding its target inside the angry wide mouth.

And then it was done, over in the span of three heartbeats. Camilla turned to the trees, flames swirling bright around her fist as she called out. "Who's there? Come out where I can see you, or I'll set the trees on fire!" Well, that would be unfortunate for everyone involved. Faendal obliged her, slinging his bow behind his back as he did.

"It's me. Faendal."

"Faendal!" Camilla was a blur. Before he could speak – before he could think to speak – her arms were around his waist in a hard hug, her face pressed up against his chest.

It took his breath away.

All too soon, she pulled away. Up close, he could see her face, could see the sun in her smile. "Faendal! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes. It's so good to see you!" He was grinning like an idiot; he could feel it, could feel the stretch of the muscles in his face.

"Ah...it's...good to see you too." _Dolt. Idiot. Say something sensible. Ask her why she's here._

"Thanks for your help! Though..." she eyed the dead wolves. "I could have handled it. I think."

"With a novice fire spell and a dagger?" _Oh. No. He didn't just...Sweet Mara._ He felt his face flush, the heat running to the tips of his ears. He hadn't meant to sound like that. He _hadn't. _Why was he such an _ass_? "I mean – that is – I meant to say -" Camilla laughed. For a moment he panicked, thinking she was laughing at _him_, then realized that this was infinitely preferable to her anger.

"No, you're right." Camilla ran a hand over her face, letting out a gusty sigh. "I should have brought a sword, I think. Not just this little one -" She patted her sheathed dagger, "-here."

"Right. I mean, people don't really hunt wolves with daggers. Er, at least, I always try it was a bow. And arrow. Arrows. Um." _Ass._ Camilla laughed again.

"Oh, I wasn't out here to _hunt_. Of course not. I was actually, ah..." she trailed off with a sudden nervous laugh. "Well, I wasn't planning on being spotted by anyone. Didn't count on the wildlife, though. And I guess I shouldn't have taken the road either, huh? By the Nine, I didn't think this through."

"Right. So...we should head back then." Camilla blinked, then shrugged as though to shed whatever thought she'd been having before he spoke.

"What? Oh. Well, yes, I suppose you'd want to go home, huh? You were on the road all day, I'm guessing." She smiled at him again, bright and sweet as summer honey. "Thank you Faendal." And then she started to walk away. _What ?_

"Wait, Camilla, wait-wait – what – where are you going? Why are you out here?" He saw now that she was wearing a pale blue apprentice robe – the very same one that hung on the pegs behind the counter at the Riverwood Trader. She had a satchel belted to her waist and a small travel bag slung over her shoulder.

A horrible suspicion began to form in his mind.

"Camilla, where are you going?" She turned to look at him, walking backwards.

"Where? Oh. Up there." She pointed. "I'm going up to Bleak Falls Barrows."

_Sweet Boethiah's Daedric tits. _

Faendal was beginning to really hate his life.

A/N: So Google tells me that 700lbs is about 50 stones. Hurray for the internets!

With that said, thanks for everyone who's reviewed thus far. I deeply appreciate it! And yes, we'll be getting to the meat of the story...soon. This is just set-up.

Expect a rewritten version of Chapter 2 (The Restless Wolf/The Pale) sometime in the next two weeks, though I haven't decided if I'll pound out the next chapter before or after said update.

Next chapter: Sigrid decides the Valerius clan is full of idiots, Hadvar hobbles around a lot, and our supposed heroine picks a lot of flowers. Full of action! Intrigue! Gossiping housewives and awkward dinners! Yay!


	5. 04: but the fortuneteller said

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I ended up completely distracted by nanowrimo then I got all bent out of shape trying to finish my "novel" after I failed it.

Also, I am in the process of paring down this horribly long epic, so some of the content in ch. 1 may change, especially since I'm cutting out a bunch of subplots.

Finally, I apologize for my complete inability to write out dialectical speech. I suck at it. I know. Sorry. T_T

the blacksmith's wife/riverwood

[but the fortuneteller said]

She was picking flowers again.

Sigrid had been hoping that their...guest had finished with her recovery; if anything, she had appeared to be making herself useful that morning: rising at the crack of dawn and weeding the modest plot of pumpkins and squash at the very back of Sigrid's garden.

But no the girl was back to picking flowers and an assortment of inedible mushrooms.

"Did y'tell 'er the mushrooms are poison?" Hadvar set down the axe and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Having sent Faendal up to Whiterun, Hadvar had taken it upon himself to chop the wood for Alvor's forge. He'd fetched the water too, hobbling to and from from the river with such dedication that even little Dorthe had deigned to stop chasing Frodner with a stick long enough to help. It hadn't lasted long, of course – Dorthe _was_ a child, after all – but it had warmed Sigrid to see her family come together.

"Yes, I did." The legionnaire frowned. "She just nodded and kept picking." He shrugged. "I don't think she'll eat them, Aunt."

And then he'd stood up and gone back to chopping wood again.

Sigrid sighed and went back to the river with her basket of bloody sheets. By the time the sun had peaked in the sky, her spine was a single line of fire and her hands were blocks of ice; the stains were more stubborn than she was, refusing to abate no matter how hard she beat the sheets. The sharp smell of lye soap mixed with the repulsive tang of sweat, blood, and pus, and Sigrid resigned herself to burning them altogether. She would have to see if Lucan had a set to sell. If not, she'd have to barter with Delphine, a task no one ever relished.

The blacksmith's wife limped stiffly from the river, muscles protesting as she wrung the sheets the best she could before draping them over the rocks to dry. Once the sun did its work, she would tear them into strips for the fire.

In the meanwhile, she'd prepare the midday meal then get to work harvesting the rest of her garden. The pumpkins looked ready, and with winter coming she needed to get a start on the preserves. The cellar was, in her opinion, intolerably bare.

It would have been nice to have an extra pair of hands. Dorthe was nowhere to be found; Sigrid spotted their guest roaming the hills. The girl went about hooded, and though Sigrid could not see it at this distance, she knew the girl wore strips of Sigrid's old curtains as a scarf, wrapped carefully over her mouth and nose – what was left of it.

Sigrid dismissed any thought of calling out to her. It would be best to leave that one to her flowers.

That evening they sat around the dinner table, chattering cheerfully and carefully around Helgen and the straw pallet at the foot of the bed; the girl never ate at the table, not anymore. Sigrid had set her meal aside for her outside on Alvor's bench. Hadvar ate steadily, eyes only leaving his plate for his cup with the corners of his mouth turned down.

"I missed ya in th' garden today, Dorthe. Coulda used an extra pair o' hands, with all the laundry an' all." Alvor shifted uneasily in his seat. Hadvar bit into his smoked rabbit haunch and chewed dutifully, eyes never leaving his plate.

Dorthe squirmed, gaze darting like torchbugs in spring.

"Ah...well...you see..." Sigrid girded her smile with predatory patience. "Umm...Frodner and I went to the river. To catch slaughter fish for dinner! But we..."

"I didn't see ya at the river. I was doin' laundry there all day." Hadvar finally looked up from his plate.

"She was helping me fetch water, Aunt."

"Yes, in th' mornin'. I saw. Ya chopped wood all afternoon, nephew."

"She was with me then, too."

"Doin'...?" Dorthe's eyes were round in her chubby face, mouth opening and closing silently with some great internal battle. Hadvar straightened in his seat, shoulders back. He looked her full in the face even as Alvor shot him a quick, furitive shake of his head.

"I was teaching her how to use a sword."

A lesser woman would have slammed her fork down. Not so with Sigrid. He fork settled beside her plate with a soft, deliberate clink.

"Husband. Ya knew?" Alvor didn't sigh. He simply pushed his hair back from his forehead as he let out a breath. His voice was steady when he spoke.

"Hadvar. Dorthe. Weather's fine, take yer meals outside. Sigrid an' I are going to talk."

"But pa -"

"You should do as he says, mouse." Hadvar gently mussed her hair with one big hand before handing her her plate. "And Uncle, I think it's best if I stayed. It was my idea, Aunt, not Uncle's." Dorthe's huge eyes flicked from adult to adult before deciding that retreat was the better part of valour. Clutching her plate with both hands, she fled.

Sigrid rounded on him before the door clicked shut. "Fighting! Ya were teachin' her ta fight!" Her chair scraped backwards with the tortured sound of wood against wood as she stood abruptly, slamming her palms onto the table with a satisfying thud. "I understand wit' the smithin'. Blacksmith's girl should know the forge, even if she does na' work it. But fightin'!" Her brogue broadened with her distress. Hadvar's mouth opened, forming a response, but Sigrid barrelled on. "Dorthe will na join th' Legion, Hadvar, I won't hear o' it. She's goin' ta marry a good man with a head on' 'is shoulders an' gold in 'is coffers, and swingin' a sword ain't -"

"- she wants to learn, wife, and -"

"Meaning no disrespect, aunt, but these are dangerous times." Hadvar's eyes were hard, the lines of his face belonging on that of some old, grey-haired legate – not her little Hadvar, who had always loved lolling in the sun.

"Dragons ain't fought wit' swords -"

"Not dragons, aunt." Her nephew's voice, so serious and stern, had developed a note of pleading. "What comes after dragons. Looters. Bandits. Deserters." Sigrid could feel her mouth gape open, gaze gone incredulous as her voice.

"She's a little girl, 'Advar! Ya give her a sword _now_ an' expect she'll 'andle looters?"

He was already shaking his head. "No, no, of course not. I meant to give her basics, enough to get away if -"

"- if?" Her tone had gone flat. Cold. Hadvar didn't even flinch.

"If something terrible were to happen. If she was ever caught alone." Sigrid stared, mouth working silently as she imagined her little Dorthe on the street, destitute and alone.

"Tha'll nev'r happen," she hissed, "we'd nev'r let -"

"Not by _choice!_" Hadvar's voice began to inch upwards, "but you weren't at Helgen, you didn't see -"

"Back ta dragons again?" Sigrid didn't hold in the sneer.

Alvor cut in, "Hadvar's right, Sigrid. It's better for her to start young, get her footwork in -"

"'Tis not ladylike, Alvor! No rich man wants a callous'd wife -"

"Sigrid, love, no rich man wants a blacksmith's -"

"That's not true, aunt, we're _Nords,_ not Imperial -"

"An' if she goes harrin' for the road, then?" Sigrid rounded on her husband. "She'll get it in her 'ead that life's some sorta grand a'venture, then wha?"  
"We send her off with our coin and blessings, wife. Like our fathers and our forefathers and their fathers before then -"

"An' let 'er die!" Sigrid was too wroth for tears. "Dragons in our skies, war at our door, and yer thinkin' o' teachin' 'er ta swing 'er arm -" Sigrid swiped her butter knife through the air in fine parodic form, "- 'ill be th' best, na movin' 'er ta Cyrodil, or takin' 'er up ta Solitude -"

"We don't have th' _coin_ for that, blast it woman, for the last time -"

"- an' learnin' fine enough manners for a rich merchant man -"

"Aunt, a good man won't care for a callous or two -" Sigrid barked out a laugh.

"Oh, aye, a scar or two. Or three. Or a face like a burnt out forge-pit, eh?" Hadvar startled at the sudden change in tack. "Don't think I ain't noticed, you can'na even look 'er in the face now, can ya? Aye, just a scar or two, an' our Dorthe can get ta' hidin' her face at mealtimes -" Sigrid broke off abruptly, seeing the blood drain from Hadvar's face as his gaze swept past her shoulder to fix on the door.

Sigrid turned.

The girl stood in the doorway, a silhouette set against a dying sun. She stood casually, a basket full of flowers and weeds resting on one jutting hip. Backlit by the sun, face covered, her expression was impossible to read.

There was one awful moment of silence; then, in a voice thick and husky as woodsmoke, she spoke.

"My apologies for the interruption, Master Alvor, Mistress Sigrid. I only mean to ask if there was any glassware you could loan."

Sigrid found her voice again. "Aye. Top shelf, to th' right. They were my ma's." She flushed, embarrassed by her own babble; the girl only nodded.

"Thank you, Mistress Sigrid. I will be sure to return them intact." She went to the shelf, putting the glass jars into her basket. "May I use these?" She held up the empty potion bottles from that terrible night, cleaned and set alongside the other glass jars.

"Aye."

"Thank you." She paused in the doorway with a graceful nod of her head. "Good evening." She glided out, door shutting softly behind her.

Hadvar was on his feet, not running, but not walking, either. He paused by the door, half-turning: "It's true I can't look her in the eye, aunt." His eyes were fierce, bright with some unnamed feeling, "but it's not because she's ugly – it's because I'm _ashamed._"

The door slammed shut.

Silence rang loudly in the aftermath.

"I didn't mean ta hurt th' girl," she said, finally. "But it's true; no man'll take her to wife now, courage be damned. Hard road ahead o' her." She looked Alvor in the eye, head high. "I'll not have tha' for Dorthe."

Alvor seemed to sag inwards, scrubbing his face with both hands before speaking. "We'll not send 'er off to war, Sigrid." He said it so tiredly that Sigrid began to feel the first timid stirrings of guilt. "We only – Hadvar an' I – we only meant ta' train her up a little, build her up proper like -"

"- a Nord? Another Matilda?" He didn't respond to her tone.

"No. Like a proper smith. She'll have the smithy when I pass, wife. She'll need a good hand for weapons, 'specially now." He was in earnest; she could see it in his eyes, in the set of his mouth. He was _in earnest._

"By 'erself?"

"If need be." Sigrid snorted.

"They'll take 'er wares in Riverwood, aye, but she'll never make it out o' 'ere. Horseshoes and plows for our maiden-smith, husband. Horseshoes and plows forever."

Silence. Sigrid had to strain to hear him when he spoke; his voice had gone so quiet.

"And is there something the matter with plows and horseshoes? Would you prefer soldier's steel? For _Dorthe_?" An awful look had come into his eyes then; not a look of anger, but a tired sort of defeat, a bleakness she had never seen in his face before.

And she could think of nothing to say.

Alvor stood, and for the first time it occurred to her that he was old; grey tinged his temples, and he seemed bowed to the ground, moving stiffly to the door. Sigrid watched the light play over the lines of his face: the laugh lines framing his broad mouth, the deepening crows-feet that crinkled whenever he spotted their baby girl – all of it familiar, all of it beloved, and she was struck with a sudden feeling of dread.

And still, the words would not come.

The door hut gently as he left for the deepening gloom. Sigrid sat alone at a table full of food and watched the candles burn down.

* * *

It was already dark by the time she made it to the Riverwood Trader. She'd finished salvaging what was left of the sheets shortly after cleaning up their dinner. Then she had gone into the cellar to root for whatever jars were left; she cursed herself for letting the girl take the whole shelf. She hoped she would be finished with...whatever she was doing soon.

Sigrid was just opening the door when she realized the siblings were quarrelling. They were so absorbed in it that they didn't even look up when the bell jingled at her entrance.

"- well someone has to do something!" Camilla was shouting, hands balled into fists. "Arval the Swift? He'll be Arval the Soprano once I'm done with him!"

"You and what army?" Lucan's usual drawl had developed an ugly sneer. "You think he did this alone? He's with that band up at Bleak Falls Barrows, and they'll do worse than make you sing soprano, you stupid girl -" He broke off abruptly, flushing red to the tips of his ears. "Sigrid! I didn't see you there." Camilla was nearly purple with rage, jaw shutting with a painful sounding click.

"Sorry you had to hear that." Lucan shook his head as though physically shaking off unwanted thoughts. "We've been burglarized, you see - thrice-damned drifter stole our claw." He pointed to the empty spot on the counter that had once held the tackiest gold ornament this side of Whiterun. Sigrid couldn't say she was sorry to see it go.

"Brother was just telling me how _stupid_ I was for wanting it back." Camilla's sweet voice was sharp as razors. "He finds cowardice an admirable virtue." Lucan rounded on her with an aborted bellow.

"Try _sense,_ you damnable -!" He caught himself, clutching the edge of the counter as he took a deep breath. "Sigrid, you're sensible. Kindly explain to my charming baby sister why it is inadvisable for a pair of merchants to raid a bandit fort. Feel free to paint the bloody details." Camilla was already rolling her eyes. "Well then, _hire_ someone, brother-dear. Tell them they have their choice of misbegotten loot. Adventurers like that sort of thing, though I'm telling you that _their_ loot can be _our_ loot if you'd just let me -"

"No! Casting sparks is a party trick, understand? It'll tickle for a bit before they shove a sword through your gut. I should have never let you read those blasted tomes!"

"Well, fine then!" She turned to Sigrid. "Say, do you suppose Hadvar'd -"

"No." Sigrid's tone brooked no weaseling. "Not Bleak Falls Barrows. I'll na hear o' it." Camilla pouted. Sigrid ignored her. "I was wonderin' if ya had some sheets ta sell."

She was lucky; he did have some sheets to sell. They were clean enough, if threadbare, and she supposed she could always air them out on the morrow. Sigrid counted out her septims and placed them on the counter, the calloused pads of her fingers snagging lightly on the wooden surface. She lifted her fingers away, noting the dirt beneath her fingernails that she could never quite clean, the ragged cuticles framed by tough, ruddy skin.

Abruptly, her throat seemed to swell. Sigrid swept the sheets into her basket, turning quickly before they could see. She hastened out the door with a curt farewell, vision blurring.

_Silly,_ she scolded herself, but she took the scenic route home.

Her windows were glowing with the warm light of a blazing hearthfire. She stepped in, the noting Dorthe playing with her doll as she lolled in her own bed; the pallet on the floor was conspicuously empty. Alvor sat at the table, watching their daughter with a fond smile, bottle of ale open beside him. Someone - likely Dorthe, by the haphazardous arrangement - had placed a bouquet of flowering weeds on the table. Alvor's drumming fingers would occasionally graze a stem, recoil, then resume their rhythmic beat. He looked up briefly at her entrance, acknowledging her with a nod. He didn't meet her eyes.

Sigrid bustled in, busying herself with setting the sheets on the beds. Dorthe moved obligingly from the bed to the floor, Rosna the doll viciously slaying the wooden leg of the kitchen table. "Careful, Dorthe." The little toy sword wouldn't do much damage, but Sigrid found hatch marks on the furniture unseemly.

"Aww, mother…."

"Dorthe."At that Alvor took a breath, and Sigrid stiffened. He released it without a word. For a moment Sigrid thought Dorthe would make him pick sides as she so often did, but she merely slunk away to practice Rosna's sword-fighting on the corner wall. Sigrid breathed, and let it go.

"Didja bring these for me?" Sigrid put the weeds - coarse and colourful, with thick hardy stems and leaves - into a deep bowl. The vase that usually sat on the shelf had disappeared, likely taken by their guest. Dorthe beamed.

"Yes! I did!" Then she added, less exuberantly, almost shyly: "They're pretty like you." Sigrid didn't miss the look she snuck at Alvor. So she _hadn't_ forgotten. Her baby girl was growing. _If ya helped me in th' garden you'd know the flowers from th' weeds._ Sigrid bit her tongue, keeping the well-worn words from tumbling out.

"Thank ya Dorthe. I love them." She arranged the flowers in the bowl into a sort of wreath so the riot of colour held some semblance of order: deep blue, green leaves, violet, green leaves, blue again. She hadn't realized she'd had so much martyr's thistle growing about the property; she resolved to weed them within the week.

Once Dorthe was tucked into bed - once the shutters had been secured against the autumn chill, once the candles had been blown out, once the fire had been stirred just right - she lay in the bed beside Alvor, watching his broad back rise and fall gently with every breath. She wondered if he was sleeping. Dorthe was already snoring lightly, Rosna held in the crook of her arm.

Sigrid was full of words, but her throat was too tight, too narrow to let them out.

Perhaps he really was sleeping.

Sigrid lay on her side, facing his back. She let one hand rest lightly on his elbow, letting the warmth of his skin seep in through her fingers. She shut her eyes, waiting for sleep. The night deepened.

At some point in the night - just as she was starting to tilt into the dark, heavy arms of sleep - she felt an answering warmth: a big, broad hand, gentle and strong and just as calloused as her own lay gently over knuckles. Smiling, Sigrid slept.

* * *

Sigrid woke to the morning sun beaming its rays over her face. She bolted upright in bed, mortified - she'd over slept. Not badly, she thought, eying the light tracking over the floor and bed, but enough. She could hear Alvor moving outside, preparing the forge fire, and beyond that the sound of an axe striking wood. Hadvar was busy too, it seemed. Disconcerted, she stood, wondering if they'd eaten. She rummaged through the cupboards. There were two loaves of bread missing, as well as some smoked jerky. She winced. They'd eaten, apparently, but not _well._ She would have to bring out a little something.

"Dorthe!" Her daughter snorted sleepily from the bed, feet sticking out from under the covers. "Dorthe! Up!" Sigrid turned to put some plates on the table. She'd cook up some eggs and potatoes. She had some carrots in the pantry still, she was sure -

"_Hadvar! Hadvar! Haaaaaadvar!"_ She looked up sharply, with a startled, jagged movement that nearly spilled the bowl of Dorthe's weeds. Dorthe sat groggily from her bed, trying to track the sound with half-closed eyes. It was Lucan, and he sounded _frantic._

She needed to wear something. She looked down at her shift, then hastily pulled on the dress she had worn yesterday, not bothering with the laces. She wrapped herself in the biggest shawl she owned, hastening out the door before she'd finished tying her hair back from her face.

Sigrid burst out onto the porch. The men didn't even look at her. Distantly, she noted that Hadvar had never come in last night; he was dressed in the same clothes he'd worn yesterday, newly rumpled, and he'd been determinedly splitting logs for Alvor's forge again before the interruption. Surely he hadn't stayed the night with - not with _her._ Surely not. Before she could pursue that line of thought, Alvor jumped the rail that separated his forge from the rest of Riverwood, walking towards the trader with quick, worried steps.

"She's gone!" He was babbling, hair unkempt and clothes in disarray. Sigrid noted that he'd buttoned his shirt all wrong, every button one hole too low as though he hadn't looked into his fancy mirror before leaving. "She's gone, she's gone, she's gone up there to die -" Alvor reached him, gripping his shoulders gently but firmly.

"Camilla's gone?" Lucan wheezed before he spoke again.

"Yes. Camilla's gone. She's gone to Bleak Falls Barrows after that bloody claw. She took an apprentice robe and a few scrolls. Food, water. Maybe her own knife too, I don't know." He was twisting the front end of his shirt in his fingers, over and over. "Hadvar," he turned to her nephew, "you have to go after her. She'll die. They'll murder her. They'll do more than murder her, their brutes, they'll -" he swallowed then, hard. "You're a legionnaire. You can do it. You can get her back before she's - before -"

"_No!_" Sigrid's outburst surprised everyone, even Sigrid. Squaring her shoulders, she soldiered on. "No. He can't. He's injured, an' he's just one man. They're dozens o' them up there, dozens, and they'll shoot 'im dead afore they even -"

"I'll go." Hadvar met her eyes briefly with an unreadable expression, before turning to Lucan. "I'll go. But I'll need a few things. And get Sven - he's not the best with a sword, but I want someone to watch my back. He'll do it if it's Camilla. Aunt -" He turned back to her again, suddenly cutting off as though he'd lost his nerve. "Aunt, I…" He managed a smile. "I'll be back before dinner. With Camilla. You'll see."

"But Hadvar - nephew - ya can't just -" Alvor was already stepping in.

"I'm goin'. You'll need another man -" Sigrid didn't bother speaking. She grabbed her husband by the arm.

"No. By Mara, no. It's been years since ya've swung a sword -" Alvor was shaking his head, shaking her hand off his arm and she suddenly felt very cold.

"I ain't sending Hadvar off without another man. Like you said, wife, they've got dozens -"

"I'll go." They turned. The girl was standing on the road that came up from the Sleeping Giant in a relaxed pose that suggested she had been watching them for quite some time. "I'll go," she said again. No one spoke.

The girl started to walk down the road. Sigrid noticed that she was still carrying her basket, though this time it wasn't filled with wildflowers and weeds. The blacksmith's wife blinked at the sight of her glass jars and bottles, gleaming with colour in the morning sun. What in the -?

She stopped in front of Lucan. "I'll go," she said again, for the third time, and it seemed to bring the man out of his stupor.

"Oh. You're...walking." He sounded completely baffled; Lucan didn't get out all that much.

"Yes," she agreed, and she sounded very serious. "And I am well enough to go fetch your sister with Hadvar and Sven." She paused. "But I will need a few things." That seemed to stir him.

"Things? What things?"

"Supplies, mostly." She tapped the stopper on one of her bottles. "More potions, if you have them. I have healing potions here, but none for magicka -" she looked him in the eyes, "- and if what Mistress Sigrid says is true, I will be using quite a bit of magicka." She paused as though in contemplation. "And scrolls. I want to look at any scrolls you may have. Staves. Rods. We need to plan this." Hadvar finally stirred.

"Sif, wait." His brow furrowed. "I'm not saying you're not...capable...in any way, but you're - that is to say, you don't seem -" The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way suggestive of a smile.

"I'm well enough. And if what you told me is true I owe her my life." She nodded respectfully to Lucan. "We must move quickly. If she snuck out last night she has quite the head start." Hadvar didn't look convinced, but if the girl went, then Alvor…

"Yes," she said, and Alvor sent her a sharp look. "Yes, please. If you think you can help, I - we - would be grateful. Alvor's needed _here_ -" Sigrid returned his look, "- and from what Hadvar's told me, you can handle yourself in fight." _Even if you're a mage._ She had been expecting Hadvar to glare. To her surprise, he merely looked thoughtful. He gave a curt nod.

"Yes. Yes, Uncle, I think that might be best. If she feels she's well enough, then we'll take Sif." Alvor's eyebrows lifted, clearly not convinced as he swiped his gaze over her small, delicate form.

"Don't worry Uncle," he grinned. "once you survive a dragon, bandits are _nothing._

Sigrid was beginning to get a sinking feeling again. Brave words.

She hoped they wouldn't be his last.

Next Chapter: Faendal and Camilla come to realize that one must "...GATHER YOUR PARTY BEFORE VENTURING FORTH!"


	6. 05: you must gather your party part 1

the archer/bleak falls barrows

[you must gather your party before venturing forth! part 1]

Arval the Swift lived up to his name. The instant his limbs were cut loose from the frost spider's web, he was gone: too fast for Faendal, too fast for Camilla, and far too fast for shambling draugr just stirring from their sleep.

Too fast, even, for his own quick eyes.

Perhaps he saw the plate before he stepped on it. Perhaps he never even saw it; never saw the danger, never felt it until he rounded the corner at full tilt, until he heard that fatal click and felt the steel.

There was only one certain truth: Arval the Swift wasn't quite so swift anymore.

Faendal stood with his bow drawn, eyes straining in dim mage-light as he peered down the corridor. Camilla riffled through the dead Mer's pockets, steady and thorough through her grimace – his death hadn't been particularly _clean_, after all.

The corridor was silent but for the sounds of their breaths, the soft rustle of cloth against Camilla's deft fingers; there was no tell-tale whisper of ancient steel unsheathing, no brittle click-clack of mail-clad bones bearing down.

Draugr. The barrows was _crawling_ with draugr – because someone had, once upon a time, _put them there. _It was utterly _baffling_: Nords did not eat their dead like sensible people. Instead, they dug elaborate underground tombs that were as labyrinthine as they were large, armed their corpses, then buried said corpses in aforementioned underground tombs, after which the dead apparently rose again to go ahead and murder not-dead people.

'

As he'd thought: baffling. Bosmeri didn't have stories about their ancestors rising to kill them because it was never really an issue – that's what funeral feasts were _for_. Well, there was the comfort of knowing one would carry a piece of their loved one with them forevermore, but _aside_ from that, well. They were dead. And then they were food. Old uncle Tamlin would never haunt the family as anything other than a brief case of indelicate indigestion.

_Nords._ Always so bloody _backwards_.

"Found it." Camilla's voice was as quiet as he'd ever heard it, but even then, the cavern bounced the whisper against the walls. They both tensed. Nothing.

"Let's go back." The archer had already started to shuffle back as he spoke; belatedly, he realized she was shaking her head. "_Camilla._" He didn't dare raise his voice. "You have the claw. We need to go back. While we're still breathing." She inched towards him, slowly, though the sound of her steps seemed to reverberate against his ears. He tried not to wince. Anything neither deaf nor dumb (in the simple sense) would hear her coming from yards away.

"You said the jarl needed something. Some stone. We should go get it now. Who knows how long they'll stay dead?"

He shook his head. "Not the jarl. The wizard. And I never said I'd get it for him." Faendal was grateful he couldn't see her expression in the near-darkness. It didn't sit well with him, looking like some – some – "_Pointy-eared tree-banging milk-drinker"_ \- in front of Camilla; it made him a little sick, actually, to imagine her face turned from him in disappointment.

But she'd be alive to be disappointed. They would both be.

He could live with that.

"We should go back," he repeated. It was difficult to sound firm and definite when one had to whisper. "It's suicide to go on."

"We made it this far." He did not need to see her face to know what expression had settled there; even in the near-darkness of the barrow he could see the silhouette of her jutting elbows, hands planted

on generous hips.

"Besides Faendal, think of the treasure! The draugr are obviously guarding something. There's something down there, Faendal, something big. It'll be the adventure of a life-time!"

Oh _no_. Faendal bit back a groan. It was absolutely true that the youngest Valerius had a penchant for daydreams. Her bookshelf was crammed with swashbuckling fantasies, and she always harried the rare mercenary that came through Riverwood for stories of dastardly deeds and deringdo alike. The thought of treasure never failed to bring a sparkle to her eyes; dashing heroes and madcap rescues bloomed roses on her cheeks.

Camilla smelled adventure, and Faendal was doomed.

"No." His whisper sounded oddly flat, even to his own pointed ears. "We can't. l won't let you."

He knew his mistake the moment it left his mouth; earlier, even, half a heartbeat before the words rolled off his tongue, too late to stop it but knowing too well to havoc they'd bring.

As the Nords liked to say: Well, _fuck_.

"Let me?" Her voice echoed off the walls. Faendal winced, casting a quick, furtive glance down the gaping maws of the light-less tunnels. ''_Let_ me?" It really should not have been possible to pack in so much rage into two short words. The sound of it was loud – too loud.

"Camilla!" He gestured towards the tunnel with his chin. He couldn't see her eyes narrow, her mouth curl into a disgusted sneer – but he could feel it in the air, could feel it in the way her breath gusted, the chill in the empty space between them.

''Let me." Her voice had become a flat, dangerous sort of quiet, like the still surface of a late with a vicious undertow lurking beneath.

"That's not what I – l mean, I _did _mean it, but not the way you think -"

"How're you going to stop me?" Faendal tried not to gnash his teeth in frustration. He briefly debated the merits of hog-tying the girl and simply slinging her over his shoulder, but it occurred to him doing so would likely shorten his lifespan dramatically, thereby defeating the purpose of escaping the Nordic deathtrap full of too-lively rotting corpses in the first place.

Well, there _was_ always option number three: let her thick-headed highness rot.

Faendal considered. It _was_ rather tempting, but…

Nah.

Which left him exactly where he'd started: persuasion.

Bloody damn. The things he did for a pretty face...

"Camilla," he hissed,"This is _insane._ We're out-numbered by an enemy we don't understand while being fathoms underground, and we're _running out of water._ We need to go back - while we're still breathing."

She was already shaking her head. "You leave if you're so scared, you - you - _milk-drinker. I'm_ going to get that stone for the jarl." He rolled his eyes. It didn't sting quite as much as he'd expected - not when she sputtered it out like _that._

"You're an Imperial, Camilla. And you drink milk too. It's good for you." There was a pause.

"Well, I thought it had a better ring to it than 'lily-livered coward'. But if you insist…" Faendal sighed. Loudly.

Too loudly, apparently; there was the sound of shuffling steps, the noise of an ancient sword being dragged across the ground, and twin blue fires, baleful and far, far too alert for comfort, came from up the corridor.

_Wait, wait, isn't that the way we…?_

"Not again." Faendal readied his bow. Camilla crouched low, fist glowing blue as the air around her crackled.

Another draugr rounded the bend. "Oh ho," said Camilla, "you've brought _friends._"

"- Camilla, I don't think we should -"

And yet another draugr. There was a moment of silence. "Yeah, well you should have brought _more_ friends!"

"_Aav Dilon!"_

"_Dir volaan!"_

"_Kren sosaal!"_

"Uh, Camilla, I think _they definitely did!_" Six of them. Six! And they'd been spotted. There was no way - _absolutely no way_ \- that they could handle six of them, six pairs of blue burning eyes fixed on them in a murderous glare, their eerie light glinting off their well-hewn, sturdy, and horrifically _sharp_ weapons.

There was only one thing left to do. Faendal unshouldered his bow, gripped Camilla's wrist in a death grip, and bravely turned tail and ran.

* * *

the soldier/bleak falls barrows

They were dead, every last one of them. Hadvar turned over yet another bandit corpse, this one with an arrow between the eyes. _Excellent marksmanship,_ he noted. _Unusual arrows. No arrowhead, the whole thing's made of...what is that…?_ The legionnaire frowned. There was something familiar about these strange arrows, something he was forgetting. He'd never seen anything quite like it in the Legion, that was for certain; standard issue iron only within the ranks, unless one happened to be a particularly favoured officer.

There was no way Camilla did all of _this._ The girl couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with a vase, nevermind an arrow.

Sven minced over, stepping carefully around the puddles of blood and guts and the other assorted grim effluvia left behind by the dead. Hadvar refrained from rolling his eyes.

Just barely, though.

The bard was outfitted in Lucan's spare set of armour - old leathers from somewhere around the third era, if Hadvar had _his_ guess - and he wore it badly, the shoulders a bit too tight and the bracers a bit too loose over his wrists. Hadvar had tried to get the man to adjust the damn bracers, but he'd whined about a bard's wrists and fingers being his life blood or some other such rot, and Hadvar had given up in disgust.

"Oh fearless leader!" Apparently Delphine's patrons found Sven's voice rather charming; Hadvar begged to differ. "They've gone in." Hadvar kept his expression neutral.  
"They?" Sven sighed, sounding all very put upon.

"Yes, oh great one. They. Faendal and Camilla." Hadvar startled, though he hid it well as he rose from his crouch.

"_Faendal_ and Camilla?" Sven sighed again.

"_Yes_, Hadvar. Faendal and Camilla." The blond man trailed his fingers over the fletched ends of the strange arrow; it quivered in place at his touch, a macabre little vibration between sightless eyes. "These arrows are _bone_. Only one tree-banging knife-ear in Riverwood, and that's Faendal." He swung his glittering green eyes to the entrance with a surprising intensity. "Must've met her on the road. Why he didn't just sling her over his shoulder and bring her back is - well, actually, no. It's obvious: he's tree-fucking milk-drinker, that's why."

_Bone._ Of course. He'd known it of course - he'd heard of bosmeri archery, their penchant for carving bows and arrows whole out of bones and bits of corpses. He'd never been clear on _why_ of course - something about a sacred wood somewhere, or the like - but he hadn't connected that thought to _Faendal_.

And he hadn't expected Sven to hate him so. They'd been neighbors for _years._

Eir - _Sif_, he corrected himself - seemed to glide from the shadows between the towering stone columns. She came to a stop at the very bottom step, not deigning to step into the slaughter zone. Sif had forgone armour of any kind, refusing even Hadvar's old training leathers from when he'd been a gangly little teen. Lucan hadn't had any apprentice robes either; Camilla had taken the only one. Hadvar eyed her, trying for nonchalance; Sven's amused side-ways look spoke his failure loud and clear. Hadvar ignored the bard's knowing smirk, wiping his hands over his leathers as he stepped around the dead.

"Right. Well, if Camilla's not out here -" he nodded grimly to the grotesque spectacle of bodies, "- then she's probably somewhere in there." He hoped. It was entirely possible she'd been eaten by wolves; Skyrim's predators liked to drag their kills off the road before eating them.

They picked their way towards the entrance of the barrows. Sif paused at the crude altar in the antechamber, her eyes betraying nothing as she gazed at the gutted body on display; Hadvar couldn't imagine how her guts weren't churning at the mere sight of the buzzing flies. It was revolting.

Then again, maybe they _were_ churning; it was impossible to tell, with more than half her face covered by that make-shift scarf. Guilt surged in his gullet and he looked away, towards safer targets.

They started to make their way deeper into the barrow. Sif paused at the top, looking down at the sudden drop that would bring them into the barrow proper. Hadvar reflexively reached out to grip her elbows and ease her down, but she brushed past his reaching hands, crouching and hopping lightly to the ground instead. Sven's smug voice was low, pitched for Hadvar's ears alone:

"Had a spat then?"

"No." _Yes._ Sven moved to pass him, green eyes alight with sardonic delight. Hadvar's frown deepened in irritation. "We're not...whatever you think we are." One blond eyebrow rose in perfect incredulity.

"No? And here I was thinking you were _just _friends. Something sordid, then?" Son of a -!

"That is _not_ what I was -" the legionnaire cut himself off, aggravated by his own reaction. "That isn't important. It has nothing to do with anything - and keep your bloody eyes and ears out. There could be anything down here."

"Yes sir, fearless leader sir." Sven had the gall give him a jaunty little salute as he finally moved past; Hadvar took a moment to ground himself then lowered himself down as well.

The three of them stood at the rough hewn entrance - padded dirt and uncut stones, at the precipice of the temple's civilized facade. The air that blew from the entrance smelled fetid - just like a tomb.

"All right," Hadvar said, "here's the plan. I'll take point. Sif, you're behind me. Sven, keep your bow out and cover me. We're going to go in low to the ground and we're going to be _quiet._ Clear?" Sif nodded. Sven gave him an insolent smile that he took for agreement.

Taking a final, deep breath, Hadvar plunged into the dark unknown.

A/N: The slur "tree-banging" was taken from Heroes of Might and Magic V (Agrael, you were awesome until you took off your damn disguise) and the slur "knife-ear" was taken from the Dragon Age franchise (because I am uncreative).


End file.
